


Elder City

by antivan-beau (sheepsinthenight)



Series: Rootless Refuge [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Character Study, F/F, Humor, Light Angst, Mid-Canon, Morrigan is gay but hasn't figured it out yet, Two complex people almost talk about their feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:54:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22901290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheepsinthenight/pseuds/antivan-beau
Summary: “‘Tis a mystery. How could anyonefailto see the appeal of elbowing their way through crowds of barely washed humans and elves? Of the dulcet sounds of domestic quarrels, ceaseless Chantry recitations, or badgering by officious merchants. Or such olfactory wonders as the stench of livestock, stale beer, concentrated urine, and countless more fascinating, memorable odors - ”“Glad you’ve brought your sunny disposition to this endeavor, as well.”In which Morrigan is ill-equipped to deal with Denerim, a beautiful Grey Warden, and an earnest assassin.
Relationships: (past) Zevran Arainai/Female Warden, Morrigan/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Zevran Arainai & Morrigan
Series: Rootless Refuge [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1731037
Comments: 31
Kudos: 42





	1. Your Grid is Off-Kilter To Mine

**Author's Note:**

> Although set during the earliest phase of Morrigan and Beatrice Cousland's eventual romance, the primary relationship this fic explores is actually Morrigan and Zevran's friendship. Becomes clearer in the second chapter.
> 
> CW for a character experiencing a panic attack.

  
In green glimpses between trees, she was a fawn, a hare, a girl. She was small, and knew every bramble she could dart beneath or clear with a leap.

The two men who pursued her crashed through the underbrush. Their armored shoulders snapped past every twig. Their plated legs tore every vine. They were slow, awkward, and inexorable.

If they were wise, they might have noticed that she moved just fast enough to stay out of reach, but never so fast that they’d lose sight of her. But templars were never wise.

She laughed as she ran, breathless and giddy - was she having fun, or was she afraid? Yesterday she’d finally learned what they did with witches once they caught them. She’d seen the Chasind woman’s body hanging purple and putrid from the town gallows. That was the fate of mages who strayed too far from the forest.

But the Wilds were her creche and her kingdom. And when she led these men to her mother, their deaths would be much nastier than mere hanging. That frightened her, too, even though she knew it was right that they should suffer.

Her laughter changed: too cold and world-weary for a child. It was the voice she’d have when she was older, ten years too soon.

She startled herself. Her foot caught on a tree root and she fell. Blood filled her mouth from her bitten tongue. 

On instinct, she reached in her mind’s eye for the shape of a fox - quick and cunning, but conspicuous enough that they could still follow. When she drew power from the space around her, she was met by the sensation of static; an impotent buzz that made her nape hair stand on end and her fingers twitch in the dirt. A breath later, even the static was gone, replaced by yawning silence. She was cut off from the Fade. She was frozen in her own trembling bones.

Then, a gauntleted hand wrapped around her wrist. It pulled her roughly upward.

Her heart hammered in her chest as she came face-to-face with a shining helmet. She saw her own expression of naked terror, distorted in its curved steel.

From within the helmet, the templar spoke:

_“Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him._  
_Foul and corrupt are they_  
_Who have taken his gift_  
_And turned it against his children._  
_They shall be named maleficar, accursed ones._  
_They shall find no rest in this world_  
_Or beyond.”_

Morrigan woke with a start. 

The voice continued: female, a resonant contralto, and not at all dreamlike. In fact, it was very close.

In an instant, Morrigan’s fingers were tight around her staff. Her magic blossomed outward before she even opened her eyes: powerful, refined, and whole. 

She formed a lattice of humming potential that could focus to become a shield, a shower of ice, or a paralyzing prison. Her arcane awareness sung like a taut bowstring as she tried to orient to the sound. First aim, then let loose.

The woman’s voice continued, but it was theatrical rather than threatening. Beneath the Chant of Light came the clatter of wheels and horses' hooves. These were accompanied by a countermelody of jangling armor. Maybe templars; more likely, caravan guards or soldiers. No more than six, no less than three. The sounds came from her left and from a modest height. Although close, the group seemed to be receding, growing subtly quieter.

Morrigan opened her gold eyes to somnolent slits. She lay still in her tent, one pale arm outstretched from her nest of blankets, still clutching her staff. The Sister and her escorts were on the North Road. They were simply passing by, headed toward Denerim just as she would be in an hour’s time. They were not hunting her. They were neither an immediate threat, nor an eventual threat. Probably.

Morrigan withdrew her arm back under the blankets. Her magic dissipated with the movement, the barrier between her will and the Fade's potential solidifying once more. She stared up at the dewy canvas. Dawn light shone softly through, silhouetting a few spiders that had found their way atop the tent roof.

Why had she let Beatrice place their camp beside a main road? _Safer from darkspawn,_ she’d said. _Easier to get going in the morning,_ she’d said. 

Morrigan shifted onto her side to scowl at the woman who’d made that particular decision. The Warden’s breathing was deep and even. The circles beneath her eyes had faded, and her cheeks and parted lips had a soft flush. The Sister’s recitation hadn’t woken her. In fact, Morrigan was fairly certain she’d slept for seven uninterrupted hours. A rare reprieve.

By contrast, the mage had suffered a singularly restless night. Travelers used the road even after dark. Every booted footstep and wagon wheel against the cobblestones jolted her awake. While the humans were too loud, the land too was too quiet. The morning birdsong was sparse in the farmland outside of Denerim. Even the rolling meadows of the Bannorn had more birds, although most she could not name. 

She yearned for the dawn chorus of the Wilds. There, the nightly hum of insects and frogs gave way to a choir of birds, rustling animals, and whispering leaves.

The Chantry folk were distant now, heedless of the malificar who had been moments from conjuring a storm that would have frozen their feet to the earth before it pummeled them bloody with hail. 

Denerim would be swarming with clerics, she knew: Mothers, Brothers, Sisters, and even proper templars. In the company of two Grey Wardens, she couldn’t react with the bellicose instincts her mother had carefully honed. She needed to keep control of herself.

Beatrice’s eyelids fluttered softly. Morrigan was relieved that she occasionally got to dream of something besides darkspawn. The Warden shifted in her sleep, and her face was hidden behind a tangle of russet curls. Sometime in the night, her braid had come undone. Likewise, the laces on her tunic had loosened. Glimpses of the side of her breast were strangely captivating. Morrigan reasoned that the contrast was what held her attention. How vulnerable a warrior could look, in spite of the muscle that corded her arms and tightened her stomach.

Morrigan’s gaze traveled across a cartography of scars. Here was Kinloch Hold: a burn across Beatrice’s forearm left by a rage demon. There was the Brecillian Forest: a knot of scar tissue on her stomach where a werewolf’s claw had punched through her armor. A dozen small nicks from darkspawn blades traced her knuckles between Ostagar and Redcliffe, before she traded her padded gloves for heavier gauntlets.

Morrigan blinked. Had it been half a year or half a lifetime since she’d left the Wilds?

Perhaps it had been many small lifetimes. Many Morrigans seemed to have lived and died. 

There was the Morrigan who swore that she’d never leave the forest again. That was quite funny, these days. The Morrigan who lived in her mother's shadow was a stranger. She and Beatrice discussed how they’d kill Flemeth to steal her grimoire. And the Morrigan who emerged from the Circle Tower could never have been the same woman who’d entered that nightmarish spire.

The night Zevran had charmed his way into Beatrice’s tent had felt like lifetime all on its own. It was followed by a tormented afterlife where they’d been constant companions. That was back when she still pitched her own camp far from their band’s shared fire. 

But that life, too, had come and gone. And Morrigan had found herself here.

Today, she was simply going to become the Morrigan who’d been to a city. Hadn’t she wanted to see a city, once?

Beatrice stirred in the blankets, blinking back sleep. When her eyes focused on the witch beside her, she smiled, and it felt as if the dawn had broken a second time.

Morrigan sat up abruptly, disguising her surprise with a soft humph. “I was beginning to worry you would sleep past breakfast.”

“G’morning to you, too.” The Warden stretched out her arms above her head as far as the tent would allow. She yawned hugely. The tangle of hair around her face put Morrigan in mind of a picture of a lion she’d seen in one of Flemeth’s books. “Didn’t think you’d be so eager for Denerim.”

“I am not eager. I might go so far as to say that I am repulsed by the idea.” 

Beatrice spoke through a second yawn. “Oh? Why’s that?”

“‘Tis a mystery. How could anyone fail to see the appeal of elbowing their way through crowds of barely washed humans and elves? Of the dulcet sounds of domestic quarrels, ceaseless Chantry recitations, and badgering by officious merchants. Or such olfactory wonders as the stink of livestock, stale beer, concentrated urine, and countless more fascinating, memorable odors - ” 

“Glad you’ve brought your sunny disposition to this endeavor, as well.”

Morrigan looked at her sharply. “I understand the trip is necessary for our mission. As such, I do not wish to waste time.”

“Ah. Well, that’s still what ‘eager’ means.” Beatrice wriggled out of their pile of blankets and sat up. She put a callused hand on the mage’s shoulder. “Did you sleep alright?”

Morrigan shrugged off the hand without thinking. The Warden’s eyebrows knitted together so earnestly when she asked questions like this. They conjured within Morrigan a complex series of emotions: incredulity, irritation, embarrassment, and somewhere below it all, a kind of helpless, childlike gratitude that, in turn, disgusted her.

So she rolled her eyes at the question. “I am adequately rested.”

“Glad to hear it.” Beatrice smiled at her, warm and uncomplicated. “I just wondered if you’d be nervous.”

“Nonsense. I never wished to spent my whole life in the Wilds. For all the unpleasantness of cities, I am… curious about the experience.”

Which was why adrenaline lanced through her at the very thought. The Warden was right - it was eagerness after all. Eagerness to get it over with.

To Morrigan's vague disappointment, Beatrice tugged absently to tighten the laces of her tunic. She combed her fingers through her hair before beginning to plait it again. “Give me a minute. Then let’s go see what small animal Sten’s murdered for our breakfast.”


	2. I Wonder What Roots I Will Find

Window shutters slammed open. A few paces down the shaded street, Morrigan tensed as the sounds of an argument went from muffled to conspicuous. She was seized by a sudden, irrational feeling that they were shouting at her.

A plume of smoke poured through the open window, but it looked more hearthfire than housefire. The caustic, earthy smell of burnt vegetables met her nose. A moment later, a shape too charred-black to be called turnips sailed out from the open window and landed in a heap. It smoked gently in the gutter of the cobbled street.

The shouting coalesced into distinct speech. “Three times in one week, boy? I cannot believe - ” The shutters banged closed again and the cook’s next words were lost.

Morrigan’s sharp fear dulled to disdain. She unclenched her fists and craned her head, hoping to catch Beatrice’s eye for a scathing “see where you’ve brought me?” eyebrow raise.

The Warden had watched the arc of discarded turnips through the air, but as soon as the window was shut again, she looked merely amused. She walked a few paces ahead in the alley, chatting idly with Zevran beside her. The incident hadn’t even disrupted their conversation.

“Of course,” Zevran was saying, “compared to the cities of my homeland, Denerim is a modestly successful hamlet.”

Beatrice gave him a good-natured shove. “Faithless! That’s no way to talk about the birthplace of Andraste.”

“It is a charming hamlet!” he protested.

Buildings rose up on either side of the street. Most had two stories; some had three. They were made from dark timber frames filled with white plaster, rising in tight jumbles with windows of every shape. Most looked in a state of half-renovation, half-disrepair.

The only glimpses of sky shone in a blue arc directly above them. Morrigan told herself it was no different than the shadowed heart of the forest, but the sounds of conversation and industry made the comparison impossible. People passed on either side of her: peddlers pulling carts, tradesfolk on errands, children running and playing. In the Wilds, she could detect any threat from a distance, but here, everything seemed to demand her attention.

Their trip into Denerim had an inauspicious start at the back of a queue. The only way into the city was past a high stone wall. Guard towers loomed at regular intervals. Pairs of towers flanked gates that spilled wide avenues from the countryside into the city proper. 

Their small party had approached behind a caravan with goods to declare and tariffs to dispute. The ensuing quarrel between merchant and watchman had the theatrical rhythm of haggling, _just_ on the boisterous side of good-tempered. It set Morrigan on-edge. Once inside, the ceaseless bustle of human activity kept her there.

She supposed the city walls offered an illusion of safety. Travelers flocked in droves when their villages were threatened by darkspawn. But as she’d passed below the gate’s portcullis spikes, Morrigan couldn’t escape the feeling that she stepped willingly behind the bars of a cage.

Unable to catch Beatrice’s eye, Morrigan glanced instead at Alistair, who walked beside her in an unhurried gait. He looked over when he felt her gaze.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” he began. 

“More’s the pity,” Morrigan said reflexively.

Alistair persisted. “I just don’t get it. Why would Sten be loads better at cooking than the rest of us?”

A mabari’s bark echoed down the street. In the sharp sound, Morrigan envisioned the dripping jaws of bandits’ hounds, their twitching, muscled hides covered in warpaint. She had her hand against the staff on her back before she spotted the dog. It stood behind the slats of a wooden fence, wagging its tail in obvious, friendly delight as it continued barking. It bounded alongside them as they passed. 

Morrigan exhaled deliberately through her nose. She eased her hand from her staff, back down to her side.

When she spoke again, she was almost grateful Alistair could provide a distraction. “Perhaps cooking is one of the duties of his caste. Perhaps in Par Vollen, Stens form a great legion of warrior-chefs.”

His eyes went wide. “You really think so?”

“No, you fool.”

They walked in silence for a few moments before Alistair spoke up again. “But you have to admit, the rabbit this morning was better than when you roasted those weird little lizards.”

Morrigan frowned. “They were exactly as my mother used to make.”

“Well, I don’t doubt that…”

She kept her eyes on Beatrice and tried to block out the commotion around them. She saw Zevran put a hand to the small of the Warden's back, guiding her around some uneven cobblestones. The assassin was _always_ touching her, getting her attention with a hand to her shoulder, brushing her hair from her face, even leaning against her at their evening campfires. And Beatrice always looked entirely, maddeningly comfortable with it.

The first weeks they’d traveled together, this had been beyond irritation; it was agony. Morrigan watched Zevran with hawks’ eyes, waiting for the casual movement that would slip poison into the Warden’s waterskin, or push a dagger beneath her ribs during the chaos of battle. Of course, that movement never came. She’d seen him save their lives more than once - more times than she could count. But she still dismayed of his habits. 

At this moment, Zevran’s incredible ease with cities wasn’t endearing her further. He’d talked their way past the gate watchmen, while Morrigan had been stiff and awkward. When street vendors assailed them, he brushed them off with a smile. She'd frozen in full-body panic. His eyes effortlessly slid over thongs of people. Morrigan made brief, furious eye contact with everyone, assessing threat and issuing challenge. She sensed that this somehow made her more conspicuous. Why did people make so much eye contact in the countryside, but in cities, they hardly glanced at one another?

She decided she liked Zevran better on the road, when he was clumsy at starting cookfires and had to be taught simple things like how to pitch a tent or find fresh water. Seeing him in his element was deeply annoying.

There was a break in the buildings to their left, opening into an even narrower, dingier alley. Cobblestone transitioned to packed dirt, and laundry hung limply on overhead lines. To Morrigan’s dismay, Beatrice slowed down before the alley's mouth. 

She turned to regard her companions. Against the backdrop of aging row-houses, Beatrice shone. Sunlight glinted dully off her scale mail, but sparkled on the polished pommel of the sword at her hip. A few strands of auburn hair had come loose from her braid, curling around her face.

She addressed Alistair. “I think we’re close. Are you ready?”

Alistair’s shoulders rose and fell with a deliberate breath. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Morrigan looked from one to the other. “Have I missed something?”

Beatrice seemed to be waiting for him to speak. When he stayed silent, she continued. “Alistair has some family business to attend to. I told him I’d come along for moral support. But I don’t think he wants more of an entourage.”

At this, Alistair reddened slightly, but he held his ground.

“Oh?” Morrigan’s voice sounded to high to her own ears. “Tis a delightful place for a reunion. Would this be the royal side or the bastard side?”

Beatrice gave her a withering look. Fortunately, no passersby were near enough to overhear. She kept her voice quiet. “If you want to be useful, go to the market and see if you can find those herbs Wynne wanted. Then we’ll all go together to meet Brother Genitivi.” 

Morrigan glanced at Zevran, who looked nonplussed. He had his arms crossed over his chest and his weight rolled to one hip. “One failed mission, and I go from assassin to errand-boy. Let this be a lesson to us all.” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Where shall we reconvene?”

“Back here in an hour.” Beatrice took a step forward. She squeezed Morrigan’s upper arm in a way that was perhaps meant to be comforting. Combined with the neighborhood din around them, it made the mage want to escape from her own skin. For a mad moment, she contemplated becoming a raven in the middle of the street and flying away.

“Hey,” Beatrice said softly. Perhaps she’d sensed Morrigan’s flinch. “It’s alright. I want to do this for Alistair. It means a lot to him. But we won’t be long.”

“By all means, take as long as he requires,” she replied airily.

Beatrice gave her a little smile. Just like that, it was settled. She stepped away, and the two Wardens turned together down the narrow alley. Their boots scuffed the dirt. Laundry fluttered overhead.

Apart from their hair color, the Wardens could have been siblings: tall and broad-shouldered in their piecemeal armor. Alistair with his longsword and shield against to his back, Beatrice with her two-hander at her hip, long enough to nearly drag on the ground. Both had a ruddy, square-jawed, profoundly Ferelden look to them: at once, noble and ordinary.

Zevran was beside her, watching them depart. He seemed to echo her thoughts. “Even without the blue and silver, our Wardens are conspicuous, are they not?” He chuckled. “If they were unarmed and in plain clothes, they could turn heads with their looks alone.”

Morrigan rolled her eyes. “Alistair looks like a farm boy.”

“He does,” Zevran said fondly.

A trio of women bustled past the Wardens and were fast approaching the alley mouth were Zevran and Morrigan stood. Two were older, likely seamstresses, from the heavy bolts of cloth they carried. The younger third trailed empty-handed behind them. 

In deference to their nearing proximity, Zevran changed the subject away from Grey Wardens. He flashed Morrigan a warm smile. “So shall we deign to be sent on an errand?”

“I suppose I have no ch- ” She'd stepped out of the way of the two women in front, but apparently misjudged where the third was headed. They bumped shoulders, hard, then several things happened quickly. She felt cool, dry fingers against her wrist. A deft movement from callused hands, then a sensation of lightness. One of her bracelets had been unclasped and palmed.

Morrigan twisted to grab the woman’s arm. She sent a jolt of electricity crackling through her fingertips. The would-be thief’s fingers twitched open and the bracelet clattered onto the cobblestones. 

Morrigan’s grip was vicelike. She stared into the woman’s face - the girl’s face - and saw that she was no older than sixteen, sharp-featured and dark-eyed. Her teeth were still clenched against the pain of the shock. She hadn’t cried out.

“I imagine,” Morrigan said, dangerous and soft, “That you saw that I dropped that. And you were eager to return it to me.”

The girl replied stiffly. “Yes. That's right.” She was staring down at her own arm, almost puzzled. Morrigan could envision a ghostly afterimage of lighting blossoming outward from wrist to bicep, pain fading in a second but leaving numb pins-and-needles.

Morrigan released the girl's wrist. She stooped briefly to sweep the bracelet back into her hand. The girl watched the movement warily. Her eyes flicked upward, from gnarled staff, to feathered hood, to pale face.

Morrigan watched questions form behind her eyes. However, the apostate's voice betrayed none of her anxiety. “Consider yourself lucky to receive a warning. Now begone.”  
  
The girl quickly withdrew back into the alley, rubbing her arm, glancing over her shoulder as she went.

It was over in a minute, then Zevran was close at her side. “That was deftly handled,” he murmured.

Morrigan’s eyes were hard. “I'm not so sure.”

One of the old seamstresses had taken notice of the scuffle, stopping a few paces down the cobbled street. Now she hurried back toward them, earnest concern written across her wrinkled face. “Are you alright, miss?”

Morrigan let out a sharp exhale. “Yes, thank you.”

“Did she hurt you?” The second woman had joined them. Both stood too close for comfort, but with full arms and painfully sincere expressions, Morrigan didn’t imagine they were the girl’s accomplices.

Although entirely confident protecting herself from a pickpocket, faced with this interaction, Morrigan was suddenly out of her depth. “I’m fine.”

One woman said, “Thought when they quarantined the elves we’d have less of this sort of thing.”

The other said, “Poor dear. Between the darkspawn and the war, all these outsiders are showing up, causing trouble like this.”

“You could press charges, you know. I saw her face, I could recognize her - ”

“If you stay here, I’ll go find a watchmen - ”

“You will do no such thing!” 

Once she’d said it, Morrigan realized how loudly she’d spoken. And that she’d stepped forward. And that Zevran had put out a gentle hand in front of her. To his credit, he did not touch her.

He radiated affable concern as he looked between the two old women. His smile reached his eyes. “Dear ladies, you make a generous offer of aid. But as her chaperone, any harm that befalls this beautiful woman is my responsibility to redress.”

Nearby, the mabari began to bark again. Zevran was still talking, but Morrigan lost the thread of whatever tale he was concocting. Passersby spared them only quick glances, but glances were enough to set her on-edge. Was that gaggle of children staring at her staff? Zevran’s weapons were hidden, but anyone could deduce from his poise and accent that he was no alienage elf. Time slowed.

The women were speaking again. She couldn’t distinguish their words. There was nodding, frowning, some sternly drawn-in eyebrows that conveyed satisfaction that things would be taken care of. As if she were watching a play, Morrigan saw their faces melt into placated expressions. They bobbed up and down in her direction, and she managed to incline her head back. Her pulse in her ears was louder than the mabari’s barking. 

Adjusting the bolts of cloth in their arms, the women turned to leave. Watching their retreating backs, Morrigan expected to feel better. Instead, her detached awareness persisted, a feeling she was on the cusp of identifying as _panic._ The cobbled street, which had seemed so wide compared to the alley, was closing in. The old timber homes looked on the verge of collapse, ready to fall to splinters around her.

She couldn’t draw a full breath. It smelled awful everywhere: horse manure on the side of the street, rubbish heaps behind restaurants, the rotting-egg smell of a nearby alchemical laboratory. And she’d used magic in the center of a city, and at least one stranger definitely knew it.

“Morrigan.”

She realized it was the third time Zevran had said her name. He spoke softly but intently, in a way that cut through the neighborhood din. “I know of a quieter place nearby.”

She looked at him with rabbit eyes, blown wide with distress and distrust.

“There is a private dock on the river, not too far from here. Rarely used.”

To her distant surprise, her voice sounded completely normal. “Take me there.”

He looked at her seriously. “May I take your hand?”

“No.” She said it with the finality of command, with a power that could have stopped a brooding thunderstorm from beginning to rain. 

His nod was curt and sober. “Stay close to me, then.”

Their walk was brief but nightmarish. The people they passed were muddy shapes against the buildings, but their white eyes seemed to blaze and follow her. 

Magic rippled beneath her skin. In the thick of battle, choked with the same adrenaline she felt now, Morrigan could be a spider in the center of a web. She’d sense one tug and lash out, swift and deadly.

Here, her instincts were eschew. She couldn’t act on any impulse. People shouted, carts clattered, pots and pans clanged, laundry snapped in the breeze, and every time she felt her awareness spike, crystallize, then dissipate. Waves battering a shore. 

Her dream had come to pass: she was trapped, cut off from her magic not by templars’ power but by the stupidity of human law. Her clenched fists trembled.

From between two buildings came a shining glimpse of sunlight on water. She chased it like a hunter, like she could have held it in her teeth. They slipped between plaster and timber walls, and emerged a breath later.

Sunlight warmed her shoulders. A gentle breeze eased her posture from “guarded hunch” to merely “painfully tight.”

Morrigan and Zevran stood atop a grassy embankment. It sloped down to a small, empty dock jutting into the blue-brown expanse of the Drakon River. A few boats drifted in the deeper waters away from shore, their sails full in the wind.

Across from them stood a skyline of shorter buildings, clustered like mushrooms. Ivy covered the walls facing the river, cut away in patches to keep windows clear. Hardy trees clung in the green space between the row of houses and the muddy bank. Beyond the houses, one tree rose tall enough to cast a courtyard in shadow. It had a wide, sprawling canopy, as if it had been given room to grow for many decades.

Morrigan glanced over her shoulder. They were behind some sort of warehouse, windowless on its ground floor. She could detect no sounds from within.

Slowly, she settled down on the grass, folding her legs beneath her with the elegance of a roosting bird, as well as the readiness for sudden flight. After a moment, Zevran sat down beside her, legs crossed, hands on his knees.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

Distantly, she knew she’d made a grave error if _Zevran_ noticed there was something wrong, but she was too prideful to acknowledge the question. And away from the busy street, she was too grateful to dwell on her pride.

She kept her gaze out to the far shore. “Speak to me about something.”

“Hmm?”

Her words tumbled out sharply. “At every other time, you have no trouble incessantly blabbering. Do not discover reticence now.”

“Well.” She could imagine his raised eyebrows. “What would you have me talk about?”

Morrigan’s chest rose and fell in staccato breaths. She twined her fingers into the grass as if it tethered her to the world.

Zevran was silent for a few moments, but began conversationally. “Several times, I’ve heard you and Beatrice discuss shapeshifting into animals. Perhaps you’re interested in the creatures of my homeland?”

“Very well. Start there.”

“Well, there are a great many seagulls. And rats, of course, like any city… ”

Morrigan had the distinct impression that he was humoring her. This was an uncomfortable experience, but for the moment, she was glad to have something focus on besides her pounding heart. 

“Oh!” An idea had struck him. “I once had a mark at an estate that used peacocks as watch birds. They have a loud and remarkably unpleasant cry when startled.”

Morrigan frowned. “Whatever is a peacock?”

Zevran considered this. “A bit like a pheasant, but with blue and green feathers. It has a tail like a lady’s fan, the size of your arm outstreched.”

“You’re making that up.”

“I am most certainly not.”

“Say something more.”

“Ah… I am sorry. This is not a subject on which I am an expert.”

They lapsed into silence. Morrigan wondered vaguely if there was any member of their band she wanted _less_ to be vulnerable beside. Sten couldn’t be roused to conversation in a moment like this. Wynne would have some aggravating platitude to offer. Leliana, too, for that matter. Alistair would say something embarrassingly sincere. And Beatrice… she didn’t want Beatrice to see her like this.

An ironic amusement overcame her. Zevran was perhaps the best-case scenario for who she’d be stuck beside while undergoing this strange, fearful alertness.

She watched a pair of distant boatmen tugging a rope to adjust their sail. The white canvas caught the breeze and the craft picked up speed in the water. It left a soft, shimmering wake.

Zevran uncrossed his legs and lay back, propped up with his elbows against the grass. “What might interest you, I wonder?” She felt him turn to regard her. “Shall I describe the stages involved with lanthrax poisoning? I watched a man go through all seven, once.”

Morrigan was silent for a moment. Then she muttered, “Inefficient. Deathroot is far easier to come by. And it would kill them faster.”

The smile in his voice was unmistakable. “Ah, very true. And deathroot _is_ an old Crow favorite. But the bit where the victim suffers terrifying hallucinations before they perish makes it fairly conspicuous. Typically, we have to poison people without leaving such telltale signs.”

“Why not use arsenic?” Morrigan said conversationally.

“Ha! In Antiva, they say a little arsenic improves the taste of wine! Believe it or not, many people have developed a tolerance.”

She found herself genuinely interested. “Sumac? Another other poison-oil plant?”

“Effective, certainly,” he conceded, “But so inconvenient! One cannot touch the leaves bare-handed without risking exposure.”

She smiled wryly. “Whatever is the purpose of your gloves, then? You nearly always wear them.”

He chuckled and held out a gloved hand, turning it palm up and down as if admiring it. “And imagine all the things they touch. My own clothes. Door handles. The faces of friends and lovers. If I had an alchemist’s workshop at my disposal, I’d keep a pair in reserve. But for everyday poisoning, sumac simply isn’t a practical option.”

“Have you ever tried embrium?” 

“I have never encountered it.” Zevran appeared delighted by the discovery.

“Could be 'tis only found in Ferelden. Fresh and in small quantities, the pollen eases breathing. Crushed roots, however, make a lung irritant. Inconspicuous to any observer, although occasionally a victim will suffer through a final bloody coughing fit. The lungs fill with blood in a matter of minutes.”

He looked impressed, and just a little wary. “And how would you know a thing like that?”

“My mother once had me add some to a meal for a pair of templars.” She said it casually, but found her mood sobering. She picked at the grass beneath her fingers. “T’was most instructive.”

Zevran’s voice had gone softer to match hers. “Instructive, hmm? But what was the lesson?”

She looked out at the water again. “The only one that matters.”

“Survive. At any cost.”

He surprised her by voicing her thoughts. She nodded. “Yes. Even when that cost is killing people at someone else’s behest - ” 

She cut herself off when she realized what she was saying. She looked over to meet his eyes and found contemplative regard, with a depth of sorrow that chilled her.

They’d drifted too close to something, some truer common ground. Suddenly, she was without words.

She blinked, and his expression was back to one she recognized: a half-smile, eyes narrowed like he’d just thought of a joke he planned to tell at her expense.

He laughed, and she was gratified that it sounded a touch forced. “My dear Morrigan, I admire you! I knew you possessed a certain devious intelligence, but now that I know we share this area of expertise, I am convinced I never want to find myself on your bad side.” He raised an eyebrow. “I shall have to add this to the list of alluring things about you.”

Morrigan, too, retreated to familiar ground. Her tone was airy disdain. “Tis a wasteful exercise to flatter me now. None of our companions are nearby to pay up.”

“Now, Morrigan.” He put a hand to his chest, mock-wounded. “I may once have made a wager on my own talents, but that does not mean my admiration of your beauty was insincere.”

“Forgive me. I will be forever slow to trust your praise.”

“Perhaps that wager was unworthy of me. You’ve barely tolerated my presence since I joined your band.”

She bristled at this. He said it like she was being unreasonable. Like _she’d_ hurt _his_ feelings. “Strange that I would assume a hired assassin might make good on his mission to kill us.” She took a deep breath, then failed to withhold her next comment. “And when you made your way into the Warden's tent so expediently - ”

“Ah, I wondered when we’d get to that.” With his elbows against the grass, Zevran managed a magnanimous half-shrug. “I may have made an offer, but we began things on her terms. Ended them on her terms, as well.” From his tone, Morrigan didn’t detect any reticence or hard feelings. “You can ask her about it if it bothers you.”

She looked over at him, frowning. “Do not misunderstand. I respect your methods. Tis perfectly sensible to endear yourself to the one who decides whether you live or die. If a bit mercenary.”

He chuckled. “And the pot calls the kettle black.”

“What was that?”

“You must admit, you make an amusing accusation, as her most recent tentmate.”

Morrigan couldn't stand his smirk. “Hardly the same. It began the night my tent was blown over in a storm.”

“Yes, I did think that was a clever ruse. Cut the ropes yourself, did you?”

“Blast and damnation, it truly was an accident.” Morrigan found herself flushing. She did not need to explain a word of this to him, and yet the implication of his tone was unacceptable. “Twas a matter of practicality. And she’s… very warm.” She couldn’t bring herself to look at Zevran as she said this, so she cast her gaze down to the grass below her fingers. “The darkspawn taint practically glows beneath her skin. I am frequently cold. And when her nightmares wake her, she falls back asleep sooner if I am by her side. A mutually beneficial arrangement.”

Zevran sounded skeptical. “I rather assumed there was a specific sort of mutual benefit involved.”

“As a point of fact, there is not. We are not - ” she faltered, “Not doing what you two were doing.”

“Well, what’s stopping you?”

Morrigan’s flush went almost purple.

Zevran continued mildly. “Perhaps some mechanical aspect eludes you? I’m sure I could provide some insight - ”

“I do not like you enough to have this conversation.”

He laughed, warm and rich. Then he looked at her, and the fondness in his smile was genuinely infuriating. “I truly wish, for both of your sakes, that you like Beatrice enough to eventually have it with her.”

Morrigan had nothing to say to that. Then she realized that her blush was the first time in several minutes that she’d noticed her body. Her breathing and heartbeat had return to their normal cadence. The grass beneath her was warm and alive. A breeze teased her hair around her face. She didn’t smile, but she might have.

Mercifully, Zevran spared her the need to respond. “Speaking of our Wardens - they’re probably looking for us by now.” He pushed himself back up to a seated position. “Are you ready to return?”

“We didn’t - ” she frowned, “We failed to acquire whatever herbs they wanted.”

He grinned. “Zevran and Morrigan, dangerous and very attractive adventurers, sent out on errands by a Ferelden noblewoman? Let’s say we preserved our pride, hmm?”

Despite herself, she chuckled.

They got to their feet, and she spared one last glance across the water. While they’d sat, the houses on the far shore had thrown open their windows to the afternoon sun. Diamond patterns of glass glimmered against walls of ivy.

“How did you ever find this place?” she asked.

Zevran was dusting grass from the backs of his boots. “I spent a few days around Denerim before I left for my mission.” He straightened and smiled. “I think I was perhaps looking for somewhere that reminded me of home.”

As they slipped back between the buildings, Morrigan was lost in thought. The bustling streets and press of people _didn’t_ remind him of Antiva City? Although he knew how to comport himself, knew the endless unspoken expectations and rules, it didn’t mean he was completely at ease. 

That was strangely comforting.

The streets were still noisy, and foot traffic flowed in fits and starts, mostly in the opposite direction they walked. However, a new feeling was settling on Morrigan’s shoulders as she glanced sidelong at her companion. She'd always watch her own back, but now she traveled with a band of strange fools who'd be watching it with her. If she had to use magic, even in the heart of the city, they would fight by her side.

She loathed Denerim, truly and completely, but in six hours, they’d be back in the countryside. In six days, they’d be wherever this Brother Genitivi sent them. And she wouldn’t be alone.

The street seemed somehow brighter. There was more room to breathe - enough room, at least, for the two of them. Nobody was paying them much mind at all, actually. They were just two odd faces in an odd crowd.

Zevran remarked, “You know, perhaps I simply started with the wrong Warden.”

She groaned. “Don’t tell me you’ve got designs on Alistair, as well.”

He waggled his eyebrows. “He may have designs on me.”

“I sincerely doubt that.”

“How would you know?” Zevran challenged. “You don’t pay a speck of attention to him.”

“Tis true," she said with a smile. She’d have to start at some point, but that moment was far away.

Into the afternoon din of the Denerim marketplace, they walked side-by-side to rejoin their companions.

**Author's Note:**

> Fic title and chapter titles come from the song "Elder City" - written by my friend about the uncertainty of moving to a new place :)


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